Eulogy
by LadySchadenfreude
Summary: Ulfric Stormcloak, architect to a war that will set Skyrim aflame, sits in a frozen cell. His fingers grow cold and numb, as his heart does the same.


The prison was cold: so cold that the fingers with which Ulfric Stormcloak gripped his quill were numb already. Nothing but the best for the Bear of Markarth, it would seem.

He'd sat in this cell, this squat little hole outside Solitude, for weeks now. The first had been hot fury, betrayal. He must have destroyed the crude furniture in his cell five times over, which was probably why they'd stopped replacing it by now. The next few weeks were cold, deliberate hatred. Hatred for the empire that had betrayed him, for the Jarls that had been too cowardly to stand beside him, for the damned Thalmor that had started it all.

And then, colder clarity. And with that coldness, came a numbness. Ulfric didn't need to feel those fingers to write anymore.

"I'm sorry, father. I must. Skyrim needs this." He'd made the argument so may times before, but never had it sounded so much like a plea. Still, he knew no other way but forward.

_My father was a brave man,_ he scratched out, his ink so cold it was clotted and viscous, and his fingers shaking so hard that the words were scarcely legible.

"_I__s_ a brave man," he murmured softly in correction. The eulogy would be sent out with another note, one of instructions only for trusted hands and eyes. And then, his written words would be true.

_There are none here who can deny his devotion to Skyrim and her people, _he continued.

"Except me." Son to a father who lifted not a finger to retake the Reach. Who spoke not a word against the Concordat, who raised not a hand in protest to its enforcement.

_Tonight, we grieve for him. We remember him in song and in tale, and it is with tears in our hearts that we say his name. There is no shame in this grief; the death of a hero is always a tragedy. Tonight we recognize so many losses: leader, protector, friend... and father. Though I am not with you tonight, I can hear in my heart the stories you will tell of him, the stories I know from my boyhood. My father was a brave man; let us remember him tonight._

_But even in our sorrow, we must not forget: his soul has surely reached Sovngarde by now, and he feasts with Talos, with Ysmir, and Shor!_

That was neither here nor there. Where his father feasted was not Ulfric's concern, not while he froze and starved in a dungeon.

Perhaps his father had not been without honor, but it was the honor of a man who knew how to write letters, how to hold peace talks, how to dance around issues with the grace of a born politician. Perhaps it was valor enough to reach Sovngarde; perhaps not. His father had not been the man to lead Skyrim's revolution. He was not a man for such times.

But Ulfric was.

He squeezed his hand tightly into a fist a few times, just to get the blood moving again.

_But tonight, we prepare for a feast of our own. A feast to celebrate a noble man's death, and the birth of the cause he was made a martyr for._

Ulfric stretched his fingers once more, and looked over the words. He'd never been a man for heavy sentiments, and eulogies were beyond him. But this was his father; he could still summon up the memories, the songs of the Bear of Eastmarch, of battles won and honors received. He had not lied; he _could_ hear, echoing in his mind, the tales that would be told, the memories that would be shared...

He froze the thoughts in his mind. No more of that.

Pen met paper again, quick enough to blot the ink across the page. Time to turn this speech, make it say what he needed it to, or it would all be for naught.

_Yes, _he scrawled, the words flowing faster now, _my father was murdered two nights past. Killed by cowards who wore the cloaks of our own, and stole out in the dead of night once they'd done the deed. They were cowards, perhaps, because they knew that trickery was the only way they'd succeed. I commend the spineless who can acknowledge their own weakness._

_That's right. I commend our so-called High King, who knew he lacked the strength to fight the elves, and didn't try. I admire our Imperial governors, who fell to boot licking with the ease of those born to it. And as for the assassins who murdered my father in his sleep, I praise their wisdom. They'd have gone to the grave before him, if they'd fought as men. _

A little truth mixed in made the lies more palatable to swallow, but just when had he become such a cynic? Ulfric grunted, but didn't let himself lower the quill.

_And know this: when they killed my father, they tried to cut a dream down with him. They wanted our freedom to drain away with his lifeblood. They killed him for one reason only: he was a threat that they could not risk. They feared him still, a silenced ruler of a captive land._

_But there is one thing they haven't realized: it was not only my father they should fear. His fire burns in every one of us._

_It is with a heavy heart that I accept my place as Jarl of Windhelm. But it is with a soul that burns for Skyrim that I make this promise to you:_

_I will not let my father's death be in vain. I will not let his killers walk free. And I will not allow him to be silenced, even from beyond the grave. I have the courage to lead our people back to freedom. Do you?_

That was it. Even if there were more words to be said, Ulfric's fingers were surely too numb by now to write them. The last few weeks had taken their toll. He laid the quill down, and held his fingers as close to his single candle's flame as he could.

Weak sunlight trickled down from the cell's high window. Dawn, then.

He'd dreamed these words for weeks now, and putting them to paper left him utterly spent. He tried to remind himself that he could unmake them just as easily, and forget that he ever wrote them. But he knew all too well, it was too late for that. This wasn't the kind of decision he took lightly.

Ulfric rose, rubbing his hands together. He still had one more letter to write.

The eulogy had been written on the endpapers of a battered copy of _Feyfolken_, one of the few luxuries that had been smuggled in to him. He knelt by the loose floorboard that hid his tiny cache of treasures, and pulled the book out. He flipped it open to the first chapter, and tore a long strip from the top margin.

As he replaced the book, he drew out one more thing: a bundle of bloodstained blue cloth.

Ulfric made the long walk back to his rude little desk, one of its legs smashed off from his last rage. He was glad for once that he was alone. By himself, he could pretend that the blood pounding in his ears wasn't from adrenaline, and that the shaking in his hands was merely cold.

On his torn scrap, he scrawled a just one line:

_Do it quickly, three days hence. Be out of the city before sunrise. And wear this cloak when you do. Give the attached letter to Galmar _only._ Be strong. Talos guide you._

There would be no Black Sacrament, no exchange of gold for the Night Mother tonight. For this death, his father's murder, Ulfric still had a slight, twisted sense of honor. His father would die by a comrade's hand, and his own son's word. Better, surely, than a slow death beneath the Justiciar's heel.

It would be the first death of a new war, and Ulfric would bear it proudly.

He pinned the note and the speech to the inside of the cloak, and folded it so that Eastmarch's sigil, the bear, gazed back at him.

Ulfric picked up the little bundle, motions jerky, and held it to his chest for one long moment. A frozen knot formed in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly. But the tears didn't come. He'd stopped them up for far too long with cold rage.

It was far too late to cry now. He tossed the bundle down and turned away.

Ulfric Stormcloak awaited his assassin, and filled his thoughts with freedom.

* * *

(A/N: For quite a few reasons, Skyrim is the first game that I've ever played a loyalist to the Empire. All but one of my main files are die-hard supporters of a united Empire. But as much as I hate Ulfric's politics, he's a mesmerizing character. I know there's no evidence of this in the game, it's just a weird little piece of headcanon that I've had ever since hearing Ulfric say that he had to write his father's eulogy from prison. The way I read him, he's a passionate man, and places his vision for Skyrim above all else. I can easily see him going too far.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy this. Please, feel free to review!)

Obligatory Disclaimer: The geniuses at Bethesda Softworks created the Elder Scrolls, not me. I make no profits off my fanfictions.


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